Canceled Check
by Marguerite1
Summary: A musing on payment due. Follows "Drive."


**Canceled Check**

Classification: Post-ep for "Drive."   
Summary: A musing on payment due. Scully POV. 

*** 

When storming out of someone's office, it helps if you have a destination. I lack a destination. I lack an office. Hell, I lack even the   
smallest shred of professional dignity. 

Assistant Director Kersh has just pissed me off so badly that I make a stalking, muttering exit the likes of which I had never even   
CONSIDERED bestowing on Skinner. Terrific, wonderful--except that now I'm striding down the hallway with nowhere to go, talking   
to myself into the bargain. "Bus load of doe-eyed urchins, my ass..." 

"What?" 

The sound of Mulder's voice surprises me almost as much as my scarcely-avoided collision with him. I let him guide me by the elbow   
until we are out of earshot of other agents, then I grind my heels into the linoleum and stare at him. "You left me in there with him." 

"I thought you were right behind me." 

I run my hand over my face. "Mulder, I've been 'right behind you' for years. I was there for you through this whole fiasco. And look   
where it's gotten me--thousands of dollars in debt." 

"Scully, I said I'd pay for it..." 

"You were making a smart-ass comment." 

"Okay, okay. But I mean it now. I'll cover the cost. None of this would've happened if it hadn't been for me." 

There he goes again, like the old song. I, me, mine. 

And that LOOK. I hate that look, the one that my sister made if I got the last cookie. 

I'm running out of oxygen from all this sighing. "I went along with it, you know." 

The LOOK is now accompanied by the LIP. God help me. 

"*Scuh*-lly..." 

The WHINE is what finishes me. I hold up a hand and turn around, noticing with satisfaction that my heel has left a black mark on the   
floor--a nice big one, to match the one that I'm sure Kersh is entering into my file even as I walk away. 

So now I've made my exit; I can't go back. Each step toward my car saps more and more of my energy until my feet feel too heavy to   
lift. My posture is slumped. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror, I'm horrified to find how much I resemble him,   
from the deadpan expression to the droop of my shoulders. 

Dammit. 

Assiduously avoiding all glances in the mirror en route to my apartment, I force myself to sit up straight and get rid of the hang-dog   
expression. Stopping off at the corner store for basic provisions (rocky road ice cream--could there BE a more appropriate flavor?) helps   
to restore my equanimity. By the time I get into the living room, I am certain that Dana Scully - and only Dana Scully - resides in my   
body. 

My answering machine, however, is full of Fox Mulder. 

"Scully, it's me." It's the first of many short messages. Hasn't he ever heard of hanging up on the machine? 

"Scully, if you're there, pick up." 

"Scully, I want to talk to you about this." 

And, finally, the one I really dread. 

"Scully, I'm on my way over." 

I wonder if I have enough time to pack a bag and head out to my mother's. No point; he'd follow me there. He'd follow me to the ends   
of the earth. 

He has. 

Oh. 

This is more complicated than I thought. 

Be that as it may, I tell myself, I've got a check to write. Getting to my desk is easy, as is finding my checkbook. Like the good girl I   
am, I have an account that will take money for overdrafts out of my savings account. With a flourish of the pen, I fill in the requisite   
amount and sign my name. In fact, I over-sign my name: Dana K. Scully, M.D. Take that, Assistant Director Kersh. 

I win the alphabet soup game, buddy: I have more letters after my name than you do. I actually have a *degree* in B.S. 

It strikes me as funny, and I find myself starting to laugh aloud. 

At the height of my hilarity comes the knock on my door. Death, taxes, and the bad timing of my partner: ineluctable, all three. I mask   
my hysteria with a smirk as the door opens. 

His eyes are practically on stalks. "Scully? Are you all right?" I wave him into the living room to save myself the trouble of speaking. He   
is not to be dissuaded. "You look as if you've been crying." 

The visage I present him probably does look weepy--my eyes are watering, as is my nose, and I'm grimacing. I let the full-face effect hit   
him. Let him think I've been crying, let him suffer for a moment... 

...but the laughter wells up and comes out of my nose in an undignified snort. 

Mulder, to his everlasting credit, does not laugh at me. His expression is puzzled and weary, and it takes only an instant before I   
remember that just yesterday he was being held at gunpoint by a deranged man. I should give him the same benefit of the doubt that I   
asked of Kersh. 

Shouldn't I? 

We stare at each other for long, agonizing moments. I know his face almost as well as my own--the minute crinkles around his eyes, the   
downward droop of his mouth, the worry lines on his forehead. Every year a few more are added to the canvas of his face, which has   
lost its boyish prettiness and now has a more lived-in look. Not aged, exactly - he's not even forty yet - but broken in. 

Or just broken. 

Oh, Mulder. 

When did my arms open up, and when did he fall into them? We're holding on to each other, the horror of what could have happened on   
that deserted highway just now catching up to us. We'd been so tied up in damage control for our careers that we neglected our own   
personal damage. 

My fingers find their way into his hair and his into mine. Holding on for dear life. What if Mrs. Crump's disease really had been   
communicable? What if Mulder had been shot and killed by his abductor? 

What if that damned bee hadn't gotten stuck in my collar? 

No, don't open that door. 

My body stiffens at the memory, and Mulder takes his cue and pulls away from my embrace. Damn, it's cold in here without him. His   
hand reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out three envelopes. 

"I know you want to pay for this yourself. You know that I want to pay for it myself. Logic says that we should just split it in half." He   
puts the envelopes on the coffee table and folds himself up to sit on my sofa. I take my place at his side. I always sit on his left at work,   
but on his right at my house... 

I'm off track. I look at his serious, sad eyes. "What's in the envelopes?" 

"Checks." 

"Mulder..." 

He fends off my warning growl with a cheeky smile. "It's not quite what you think. There are three different checks. One's for the full   
amount. One's been voided. And one has half of what Kersh says is owed. You pick." 

"You're nuts." 

"So they tell me." He leans into my space, eyebrows wiggling mischievously. "C'mon, Scully, take a walk on the wild side." 

"If I pick the one that's voided, you won't try to sneak money into my hands?" 

"Not a chance." 

"Okay." I ponder my choices. Would he put the plum in the middle, knowing that I'd never take the one in the middle because it's too   
obvious? Life's too short to wonder about these things. My breath catches and I hold it as my hand hovers over the three different   
outcomes. 

I'm on his right, so I take the one on the right. 

A slip of the fingernail beneath the fold, and I find myself holding a check for half of the amount Kersh quoted. 

Mulder is looking straight into my eyes. 

"Fifty-fifty, partner," I say, surprised at the softness of my voice. 

He nods, his head seeming too heavy as he lets his chin drift down toward his chest. "That's good." When he reaches to take the   
remaining envelopes, I can clearly see the tremor in his hands. His skin is a ghastly gray...why haven't I noticed it? Delayed shock. 

"Mulder." I touch his face and find it clammy, and I look up into glazed, dilated eyes. This isn't good. I go in search of something to   
keep him warm. "Mulder, stay put." 

Don't ditch me now, I think as I leave his side. I need you, need this moment of caring, as surely as I need oxygen or sunlight. 

Blankets in hand, I return to the sofa and tuck him in, holding his head in my lap as we wait for the shudders to pass. His teeth still   
chatter a little as he tilts his head up to look at me. 

"They got it wrong, Scully." 

"Who got what wrong?" 

"All those bastards, the FBI, Kersh, all of them. They think they can separate us by humiliating us, by making us turn on each other.   
But it won't work, will it?" 

"Not in this lifetime," I assure him. 

"That's my Scully." It's a murmur, a slurred whisper as he falls heavily asleep. The envelopes he clutched so tightly drop into my lap. 

I have to know. 

I hold each one up to the bright kitchen light behind us. I smile, then smile again. 

They're all for the same amount. Mulder stacked the deck. He knew that I'd never accept all of the money, and he couldn't live with   
making me pay it all myself. Leave it to him to enforce a compromise. 

He stirs, smiling a little in his sleep, and I find myself craving his warmth. I curl myself around his body like a laurel wreath. 

Yeah, Kersh, take THIS. 

*** 

Feedback is cherished and answered at marguerite@swbell.net.   
Return to post-eps.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
